The Ground Beneath Her Feet
by MaybeItsJustMyType
Summary: "Sherlock, it was me who chose my reactions to your behaviour. You don't owe me your love to keep me out of trouble, to keep me safe…" Trailing off, she frowned, derailed by the sudden and overwhelming fear that tonight had not been about a shared desire, but rather a skewed sort of sense of responsibility. Her hand shot up and covered her mouth, "Oh god, I'm going to be sick."
_Please excuse any mistakes, unbeta'd gift for my beta... Little porn, little silly, little angst,_ _little love... Hope you guys enjoy.._

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The light fixtures in Molly's lounge room came equipped with a dimmer switch which Sherlock had immediately taken advantage of when they stumbled in. Molly had been the one to suggest they have drinkies, a celebration for a job well done and a thank you for the late lunch Sherlock had been rather insistent he treat her to. They'd actually been enjoying themselves immensely - not always easy with Sherlock - when Molly had suddenly remembered Toby. Although Sherlock had grumbled, he'd ultimately agreed to come as long as an off-licence was given priority on their way back to that _damnable cat,_ as he referred to him.

They'd spent the day dealing with what Sherlock had dismissively described as a _frankly tedious affair,_ complaining bitterly that it could hardly be classified as a crime. Involving the minister of transport, the minister for foreign affairs, the Spanish ambassador, the Queen's corgi's, a wooden spoon and a camera. The last of which was, as one might expect, responsible for the bulk of the ensuing madness.

Aware of Sherlock's complete and utter lack of ability - not to mention willingness - to practice diplomacy, Mycroft had insisted that Miss Hooper accompany him to act as a buffer. To which Sherlock had shot back that the fee would then need to be doubled as _Molly_ did not come cheap. Though he'd arched a brow, Mycroft had agreed to the caveat readily enough.

After the whole sordid mess had been taken care of, they had made their way to the Diogenes Club where Molly had been stunned to be offered such an obscenely large renumeration.

Initially she had been absolutely _adamant_ it be returned, insisting that she had been more than happy to help as a friend and in service to her country. Sherlock had told her not to be a idiot and the whole thing would have dissolved into a mess if Mycroft had not smoothed Molly's ruffled feathers, assuring her that there was no mistake, that her service to queen and country had been greatly appreciated and indeed that it would actually cause great offence were she to reject the payment.

When she had eventually smiled and nodded, Mycroft had given his little brother a look that clearly communicated, you owe me brother mine and I _will_ collect.

Scowling in return, Sherlock had glanced at Molly who was lost in sweet thoughts and grudgingly inclined his head in acceptance.

She had stood, chewing the inside of her lip as she vacillated between the prudent and sorely needed bathroom renovations and the rather more decadent, but _equally expensive_ , trip abroad. Her hands had clutched the edge of the desk as if to keep herself from flying away, while thoughts and emotions flitted across her open, trusting face like clouds moving across the sky.

Sitting at his desk, ostensibly perusing a file, Mycroft broke the silence that had fallen, wondering aloud if they might not like to eat together.

Reacting with his usual childish hostility, Sherlock had reluctantly torn his gaze from Molly and asked sharply, what the hell that had to do with him, and why he would even care?

With a long-suffering sigh, Mycroft had responded sounding bored, do people not eat? Do _you_ not eat after a case brother mine? As though the idea held as much interest to him as what the blackbirds outside might like to eat for their lunch, he'd offered an enigmatic, wintry smile and murmured in a disinterested tone yes, well, if you don't mind, I do have work to do. His elegant hands already riffling through files and his eyes flitting about.

Dragging his eyes away from his paperwork, he'd glanced to the door. Good day Miss Hooper, do enjoy your meal, if Sherlock doesn't wish to sit down with you, I'm sure that the new pathologist at Barts, _Matthew_ is it? Would be happy to -

Eyes blazing, his mouth twisted in disgust, Sherlock had spat viciously, yes thank you, _Myc_. I've got it covered. _I_ will ensure Molly is fed appropriately.

Molly had watched them squabble, forehead creased, her eyes ping-ponging back and forth as though watching a particularly rousing game of tennis.

Mycroft had raised a brow and drawled, _indeed_ , with amusement, then sat back and watched with satisfaction and a barely disguised smile as a confused Molly had been led away by a determined Sherlock.

~o0oo0oo0o~

The recessed spotlight fixtures dotted throughout Molly's sitting room emitted a soft golden glow, painting long shimmery lines down Molly's shins. Cradling a glass of wine in her hand, she absentmindedly flexed her toes and flicked her sandal shod foot from side to side. Her gaze drifted purposelessly about before finally alighting on Sherlock.

He was sat on the floor, his back planted against the couch, a short and stout tumbler of prohibitively expensive whiskey in one hand, listing dangerously. Obviously lost in thought, at least at first glance.

Narrowing her eyes, she reconsidered. Frowning, she tilted her head in disbelief, "Are you checking out my legs Sherlock?" A wash of amusement coloured her words, a bubble of restrained laughter underscoring her speech as she teased. She was well aware his thoughts were not sexual, that whatever was going on in his formidable brain was _certainly_ chaste but it was fun to tease him about sex, she cherished the memory of his face that day in the lab.

Paying not the slightest whit of attention to her incredulity, Sherlock set his whiskey down lightly; three sheets to the wind and yet he still retained that innate grace. In one fluid move, he pitched himself forward, landing on all fours in a move that Toby himself would surely envy.

Frowning, Molly watched him silently as he loped on all fours, hips and shoulders rolling as he closed the distance between them swiftly and elegantly - no easy feat whilst crawling. Poised by her feet, coiled like a cobra, he was all potential energy, scarcely contained, ready to strike.

Heart thudding in her chest, she flushed and closed her eyes in embarrassment as her entire body responded to him. She'd never learnt how to be near him without her whole being reacting, physical and mental. Impossible to build defences against him, Lord knew she'd tried, her erstwhile engagement yet more shameful proof of her failure.

Determined not to let guilt drag her under and ruin a perfectly lovely day, she allowed herself to drift. Picturing herself, dressed in a flowing pink chiffon outfit rather like the starlet of that corny old sit-com, _I dream of Jeannie_. A delectably topless Sherlock lay curled in a basket next to her while she played a flute with expert precision, weaving a melodious spell to master and charm him.

Yanked from her reverie by Sherlock pointedly clearing his throat, she opened her eyes to find him even closer. Propped up on his knees, legs tucked under and focussed intently upon her. A smile played about one corner of his sinfully luscious lips, sweet dimple dancing in and out of sight.

How badly she wished to kiss those sulky lips, to nip at that bottom lip and graze it lightly with her teeth, would he gasp or groan? Would he be a vocal lover? Blushing, she forced herself to meet his gaze.

Could he read the thoughts on her face? All too easy to imagine him, _Don't play poker Molly, it's really not your area._ With an effort, she kept her focus on his face, meeting his gaze as steadily as she was able and managing to refrain from trailing her eyes down the length of his body.

Deliberately, slowly, he unbuttoned his cuffs, drawing it out. Eyes burning into her as he folded the sleeve over itself, and again, and again, cruelly exposing his forearms.

Did the man have no mercy?

Mesmerised, Molly looked on, unable to tear her gaze from him, the power this man held over her was rivalled by no-one and nothing else in this world. Lids grown heavy with desire, she watched as he moved to the other sleeve, forearms flexing and twisting. Ropes of veins flowed the length of his masculine arms, twining together on the back of his hands and traversing across his long, wide-knuckled fingers, standing out in stark relief.

Was this revenge? Payback for the comment about her legs?

Reaching out, he cradled one of her sandal shod feet in his hand, manipulating the strap before gently easing her foot out. One followed by the other, his movements slow, sensual. Languidly he rubbed her skin in all the places the sandals had marred her pale skin, paying particular attention to each toe.

Silent and still, barely breathing in the sudden onslaught, Molly's heart pounded in her chest, arousal spiking. Sherlock simply removing her shoes was every bit as intimate as the first time she'd had sex with Tom. If he stopped right now, it would still be, hands down, the sexiest thing that had ever happened to her. But, oh dear God, how she hoped he wouldn't. How could she help her feelings for him when her body so clearly _belonged_ to him?

Looking up through sooty lashes, his gaze was intense as he gauged her response. Fingertips coasted up one shin, ankle bone to knee cap, tracing the reflected light. Breathing out, he murmured, "Smooth."

Melting under his featherlight touch, goosebumps flared out in every direction. Warmth kindled between her thighs and radiated through her body, the way he'd imbued the word with such a sense of _wonder_ , as if he had made a discovery of great significance, a new case requiring a thorough investigation. She gritted her teeth, and clenched her fists, in an attempt to avoid blushing or stammering.

Clearing her throat ineffectually, she croaked out, "Moisturiser."

Nodding, he silently acquiesced to both her expertise and hypothesis. Raising her ankle, he kissed the inner bone and pressed it delicately to his smooth cheek.

Each and every individual microscopic nerve ending was aflame where his mouth and cheek had connected with her skin. Electricity leapt and danced between them. Pleasure flooded her cells, a cocktail of chemicals released by her brain, urging her to continue - as if she needed the incentive. Her fingers dug into the arms of the armchair, gripping it so tightly that the upholstery creaked and her knuckles bleached white.

On a sigh, she moaned, "Fuck, Sherlock."

His hands clamped firmly around her ankles, spanning them easily as his damp kiss evaporated and cooled on her skin.

Atmosphere and anticipation crackled in the air like an oncoming storm. Prickling against her tongue as she licked her suddenly parched lips.

Hitching in a breath, he released her ankles, his fingers idly caressing her flesh as he allowed her legs to slip from his grasp. " _Molly_."

The longing in his voice tugged at Molly's core as his warm palms journeyed intimately up and over her calves and knees. Her eyes opened and met his; black onyx encircled in a band of white gold.

Moving higher and higher, he kneaded the flesh of her inner thighs, achingly slowly. His lips parted and he sucked in a breath as though he would speak but his gaze was drawn again to the shadowed recess between her thighs and his words, if any, lay unspoken.

He was beautiful, angelic and looking at her as though she was fascinating, wanted. His tongue peeked out to wet his lips and she tracked the glide greedily.

Just knowing he was taking her apart in his mind just might well be enough to push her over the edge. She'd fantasised about sex with Sherlock Holmes since the first day she'd met him. He'd stormed into the lab, throwing his weight around, demanding things be done his way and above all, quickly; what he _hadn't_ done however was in any way insinuate that as a _little lady,_ Molly would be better off nursing or in the paediatrics ward. He'd assessed her work and never questioned her professional abilities thereafter.

That night had found her lying on her stomach in bed, hand clamped between her thighs, furiously, _shamefully_ rubbing, to images of those piercing eyes dismantling her, telling her about her darkest desires, the ones she hadn't admitted to herself. Dissolving into him as he hoisted her up, wrapped her thighs around his waist, bunched up her night gown and finally impaled her on what she was certain had to be _huge_ to warrant that kind of attitude.

Moving even further away from her aching sex, his hands trailed up to her breasts and hovered over the buttons of her dress. Raising an eyebrow, he waited, his intention clear.

Burning for his touch, her pulse beat a tattoo in her clitoris. Time slowed to a crawl, empires rose and fell while they danced the oldest dance known to mankind.

"Yes," she rasped, "Yes. _Anything_ you want."

Pausing, his eyes flickered as he considered her, "You're drunk, I don't want to take advantage - "

Placing her bare foot on his bicep, she pressed in with the ball of her foot and widened her stance, opening herself to him fully. "Sherlock, I'm already yours, do with me what you will."

His breath shuddered, and he groaned, "Fuck, Molly."

Sliding his hands onto her calves, he glided along until he reached her ankles, clasping them firmly within his grasp. With a devilish grin, he yanked her toward him, her stomach muscles jumping with effort as she bounced over the cushion toward him. Finally he propped her legs over the chair's own and sat back to admire his handiwork.

Apparently satisfied, he reached up and artfully flicked the buttons of her dress open one by one, before smoothing the offending fabric aside. His lips quirked in one corner when he saw the front clasp of her bra with its hanging ceramic butterfly feature and he covered her breasts with his hands. Moulding and squeezing until her nipples were hard and clearly visible through the sheer material. He ran his thumbs back and forth over her nipples until they ached.

Shivering under his touch, she arched her back toward him in invitation, grateful when he took the hint.

Unhooking the clasp, his eyes widened when her breasts tumbled free with a little bounce.

Smiling, Molly shimmied to make them dance for him. Contrary to what he had said at _that_ Christmas party, Molly was proud of her breasts; well, she was _now_.

That night had been horrific, she'd taken her heart from off of her sleeve - where she'd never even bothered to conceal it - wrapped it up, sealed it with a bow and foolishly handed it to him as a gift.

He'd been a behaving like a proper grinch, annoyed by Christmas and the perceived invasion of his flat and whatever dalliance he'd had with that dominatrix had been plaguing him. Maybe he took offence at her holiday spirit? Maybe he was concerned about a Moriarty/Jim rerun? Maybe he didn't want his love-sick pathologist looking elsewhere, _who knows_? Whatever the reason, the outcome remained the same, he'd decided to use Molly as target practice and put on a show for the whole room at the same time.

He'd thrown her admiration up into the air before casually swinging his formidable wit at it. Bullseye, he'd shattered her. But she'd called him on his shit and surprise, surprise, the whole room saw a chink in the armour of the great machine Sherlock Holmes.

Then that god-awful text tone had assaulted the room - along with John insensitively commenting that there had been fifty seven by his count and then proceeding to drill Sherlock on whether or not he ever replied. Sherlock had picked up a blood red gift - rather similar in wrapping to her own - and excused himself. All of which had called an abrupt halt to the party that night, in her more reasonable moments, Molly knew this to be blessing.

After that night, Molly had taken stock of herself, objectively. Most women didn't have access to a veritable slew of bodies for comparison purposes, but most women were not Molly Hooper.

Even the body of that woman that he'd identified by her naked body, had actually had a figure not unlike her own; she may have known how to adorn it better, and flatter it with clothes - or a lack of, she'd seen her website after all - but underneath, they were very similar. Small frame, slim build, small breasted, narrow hips, small but shapely behinds.

Molly discovered that yes, her breasts were definitively small, but what they lacked in size they more than made up for in other areas; they were in fact, one of her best features. The nipples and areola were a dusky light pink, and silky smooth to the touch. They were small enough to show no signs of ageing, still pert and proud when most of her contemporaries found themselves losing that battle with gravity. And best of all, she thought while he cupped them in his large, warm hands, they were responsive, _extremely_ responsive.

Covering them completely, his fingertips swirled in circles over her nipples and she moaned, biting her lip.

"Sherlock, you're making me feel so _good_ ," she mewled. Writhing and groaning in ecstasy, she felt absurdly grateful to his violin for the calluses and to all of the burns and cuts and various experiments that had left scars and otherwise roughened them to perfection, the way they caught on her skin was sinfully delicious, heightening her senses beautifully. Sliding her gaze to her wine glass, aware of her hand drifting and with it the contents of the glass.

Sherlock followed her gaze, plucking it from her and settling it carefully on the table behind him. Taking her hand, he turned it over and lay a wet kiss on the palm, causing her stomach to clench in anticipation.

"Touch… _taste_ …" Running his tongue over her skin, he paused at the apex of her wrist to mouth yet another wet kiss. Gliding along, stopping often to bestow overlapping open-mouthed kisses, he left a damp trail in his wake as he made his way. Pausing at the crook of her elbow to give it extra attention, he allowed his teeth to scrape over the delicately soft, heretofore shamefully ignored part of her body.

Sighing out a moan, Molly squirmed, lost in a sea of endorphins, desire and near delirium.

His beautiful mouth continued its journey, stopping by the beauty mark just beside her underarm. After lavishing it with attention, he raised her arm, sliding his palm against her sensitive skin, bending it at the elbow, he pushed over the back of her chair, then he dragged his fingers lightly back down the underside of her arm.

She giggled and her arm automatically came down to cover herself.

Sherlock fell back onto his heels, regarding her. When he spoke, his voice was low, commanding, "Don't move, if you do, I'll stop."

Frozen, she stared at him for a moment, breath puffing out in short bursts. Her thoughts were moving slowly but they were also slippery and unwilling to be corralled, making it difficult to ascertain if he was kidding. A careful look at his smile and she knew he wasn't, she'd never seen him like this, feral, knowing, controlled. It was sexy as fuck, gulping hard, she hastened to move it back to where he had left it, she then bit her lip and glanced at her other arm, unsure of what to do.

Smile growing wider and more certain, he took that hand and began making his way slowly, kissing his way along and sending her hormones into a frenzy, just as he had with the first. When he pressed her arm over the back of the chair, he regarded her silently, eyes lingering on her pelvis as she rocked, seeking friction. He closed his lips over her nipple and she gasped and clenched her fists together behind the chair.

Desperate to feel him, to slide her fingers over his skin and sink her fingers into those gorgeous, glossy curls, she begged, "Sherlock, _please_ let me touch you."

Drawing away from her breasts, he nipped her neck and chuckled. "No."

" _But_ \- " she panted.

Shushing her, his eyes roamed over her prone form. When he finally spoke his deep baritone seemed to have been calibrated to the exact frequency needed to be felt in her core, "You taste like summer, Molly."

Knickers soaked with her desire for him, she had to wonder if he was unaffected, if she didn't… _please_ him? Was this a _treat_ for her or a _reward_ for a good and long standing friend, to put it crudely, was he throwing her a bone?

Her eyes found their way to his crotch. _Wow_. His trousers were tented, his prick straining hard enough to rend a hole in the fabric.

His gaze followed her own and he passed his hand over his cock over through his trousers, pushing it down with the heel of his palm.

When it sprang back up, bouncing from his rough touch, Molly's mouth formed a perfect 'O'. Realising she was not above begging, she looked up at him, ready to state her case.

That beautiful lop-sided smile, "Patience, my sweet Molly."

 _Patience_? Her head fell back against the chair with a thud, was he trying to kill her? Unable to ignore her curiosity, she lifted her head again.

Eyes fixed on the apex between her thighs, face contorted in fierce concentration, he leaned forward and brushed his thumb across the damp heat of her cotton knickers. The touch sent an electric shock through her body, she sucked in a breath and he looked up. His eyes dark and his mouth swept up at the corners, a sureness reflected there, an arrogance. Pressing harder, circular movements in exactly the right spot, had her moaning, the sound deep, and guttural as he held her gaze. His eyes were aflame and Molly knew she would deny him nothing.

Bending his head, he mouthed the damp cotton of her underwear, her hips bucked as he began to suck her pearl through the fabric. Moaning and squirming, she gasped when he he pushed a finger under the soaked fabric and brushed her slick folds. Moments later, he slid it inside her.

"Oh, God, _Sherlock_." Her hips jerked wildly, her breath spilling from her in a staccato beat.

See-sawing his finger back and forth, he then added another before curling them, brushing back and forth until he found her sweet spot. His other hand caressed her face, brushing his thumb over her lips, back and forth.

Taking him up on his implied offer, she sucked his thumb into mouth. Sweat, salt and the texture of the pad made it impossible not to imagine it was his cock filling her mouth.

Easing his thumb out of her mouth, he hushed her when she whimpered in protest at the loss of it. Sliding his hand down and over her body he hitched his thumbs into her knickers and slipped them down and over her legs before tossing them aside.

As he ran his fingers over her completely hairless mound, Molly flushed. She couldn't help but wonder if he would react like Tom had, telling her that it was a _little much for everyday_ as he had put it. But of course, Sherlock Holmes never did what anyone else did.

"Beautiful," he breathed, as his fingers danced across her aching flesh with delicate strokes.

Jaw slack, eyes rolling back in her head, Molly's legs shook and shuddered. She had the strangest notion that he would have said the same no matter what state her hair was in, that he saw something deeper than the surface of how she looked. She thought maybe he didn't fall with his eyes first like so many others, she thought that he found beauty in a deeper connection.

His lips closed over her taut bud again, this time she could feel the slip and slide of his tongue directly on her swollen bud and she screamed, actually _screamed_ his name in pleasure. Knowing that _his_ Cupid's bow lips were sealed around her clit, that _his_ sharp tongue, so often used to hurt, to tear apart, was bringing her such pleasure, made her ache with desire. Lightly scraping with his teeth, he pulled and teased at her soaked folds with expert precision.

Hips jerking rhythmically as she ground herself into his face and onto his fingers, she rode out her orgasm. When she finally floated back down to earth, she opened her eyes, panting hard and watching him over her heaving chest.

Meeting her gaze, he pulled his hand away and grinned lasciviously, moving slowly and deliberately to bring his fingers to his mouth.

Bringing her arms down, Molly leaned forward, grasped his hand and guided it towards herself, sucking his fingers into her own mouth with a grin. Holding his gaze, she swirled and sucked on his fingers, giving him a preview of what she planned to do with that pleasing bulge still straining in his trousers. Releasing him with an audible pop, she winked and murmured, "Hmm-mmm."

Swallowing hard, he stared at her for a long moment before suddenly launching himself at her. Pressing himself between her legs, he rutted into her, driving his hard cock into her heat as he sought her mouth.

Their mouths came together in a frenzy, open and wet. Molly sank her hands into his hair, moaning into his mouth as his silky tresses flowed between her fingers, scratching her nails lightly across his scalp before tightening her fists and tugging handfuls.

Holding her hip, he held her close as he rocked himself against her, the other massaging her breasts, her hard nipples dragging across his palm.

The sensation of his clothed cock against her naked pussy was indescribably sexy, but she needed to feel him bare. Besides, that erection had to be painful. Moving her hands to his fly, she eased it open carefully, conscious of the delicate skin, then released the slide catch. His prick bounced out and Molly's breath stuttered. Not only was he commando under those sexy trousers, he had a _gorgeous_ cock. Long, thick, jutting straight out from a thatch of dark pubic hair. As she stared at it, transfixed, pre-come beaded at the tip, as though in invitation.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," she cursed. Falling to her knees she grabbed his arse with both hands and held him in place. Looking up at him through her lashes, she murmured, "I've wanted to taste you for so fucking long."

Lips flattened together, he huffed a breath through his nose and closed his eyes, his prick bobbed and Molly grinned, although she was technically the one on her knees, she knew damn well that she held all the power.

Keeping one hand firmly anchored on his luscious backside, she brought the other to the base of his cock and wrapped her fingers around it. Circling the head with her tongue, and softly sweeping back and forth over the frenulum. Enveloping him with her lips, she began to pump her fist up and down to meet the rhythm of her mouth.

Watching her with wide eyes, his breath laboured and short, Sherlock kept up a litany of her name and various calls to God. Tentatively, he placed his hands on the top of her head, stroking her hair softly. Remaining focussed on his shaft as it moved in and out of her mouth, his teeth were clenched, as he exerted every ounce of his will to keep still.

Using her hand on his arse to guide him, she encouraged him to fuck her mouth and the look of sheer gratitude and relief on his face as he groaned long and low in his throat, made her sex pulse. Hips rocking faster, he drove his cock further down her throat, she moaned, encouraging him and snaked her hand under to cup and fondle his balls.

A sharp intake of breath and he shouted, "No, Molly, _stop_ I - "

Stricken, she looked up at him, her mouth hanging open, still holding his prick. " _Stop_?"

The hurt and confusion must've shown on her face because he looked flummoxed for a moment before the light seemed to dawn. In lieu of an answer, he hauled her up and kissed her deeply.

Her nipples rubbed against the sensuously smooth fabric of his shirt as he curved his arms around her waist and held her close. Expensive, well cut, soft and so sexy, his shirts, complete with buttons ready to pop, had starred in so many fantasies. The taste of herself on his tongue was a major turn-on. Knowing he was experiencing the same in reverse made her throb with want. Just the thought of their juices mixing together made her feel wild, _alive_. Something Tom had never ever managed, no matter edgy he'd tried to get.

Falling back onto the chair, she yanked him down to crash on top of her, desperate for him. The need for him, to feel him, making her frantic.

Clearly in agreement, Sherlock swore under his breath, telling her, "You're so beautiful Molly, tell me you still want me." Slipping his fingers in, he curled them and teased.

"I want you now, _please_ , stop teasing me," she gasped out.

With this, he eased his fingers out and lifted them, watching greedily when she slurped on them noisily with a dark look. Dropping to his knees, he slipped his fingers free of her mouth and grabbed her arse with both hands, tugging her even further forward and angling her pelvis. Then he lifted her feet and set them on the edge of the chair's seat, right alongside her arse, fully opening her to him.

"Wrap your arms around my neck, Molly, hold tight."

His voice was husky and even deeper than usual, making Molly feel weak with desire. This outstripped even her fantasies in terms of how he felt, how he made her feel. Weaving her arms around his neck, she looked down, noticing just how open and at his mercy this position made her.

Planting his feet behind him for leverage, he allowed his eyes to take in her sex again, then brushed his roughened fingertips over her and grinned at the shiver of anticipation that rolled through her body. Finally, _finally_ , he aligned the tip of his cock and pushed inside.

Just the head at first, as Molly sighed, "Oh, _yeah_."

Rocking back, he then grabbed her arse, kneading it and using his grip to angle her, _just_ _so_. Each time he'd open her a little more and Molly wanted to scream, _Now_!

Maybe he caught the expression on her face, or maybe he really could read minds, either way, the outcome was perfect. Surging forward, he buried himself deep within her.

"Kiss me, Sherlock!" Molly wailed brokenly. Tilting her face up to him, a flower seeking sunlight, a moth seeking the moon.

He caught her mouth and nipped her bottom lip, his tongue nimble, able to intuitively know exactly how she liked to be kissed. He stroked and massaged her tongue with his, traced her teeth, filled her completely, surrounded her until the whole world was made of him, the taste of him, the feel of him, his rhythm.

She had never been kissed like this and she knew that every kiss that came after his would be but a pale comparison. The taste and the smell of him evoking memories of late summer evenings in childhood when both of her parents were alive and she'd had such sweet expectations of all that life would hold.

Their hips each danced to their own internal rhythms, creating a symphony that Molly wished Sherlock could set down as notes to be played, it would be their song; well, hers, she had no delusions of this being repeated. The sounds filling the room though far more discordant, were just as beautiful, skin slapping against skin, the chair creaking, Sherlock's trousers rustling against the velvety finish of the upholstery, her moans and sighs and his grunts and thrusts.

Sherlock's hips kept up a brutal pace, it was perfect, though it was _he_ inside of _her_ , she felt as though she was climbing into his skin, burrowing in under his heart, where she would give anything to stay.

Slowing, he rested his head on her shoulder, "I want to feel you, my darling Molly." With this, he lifted her down and and gently lay her on the rug, the soft faux fur caressing her.

Looking into his eyes, she saw a depth of passion that at once truly surprised and shocked her, they spoke of love. But this was Sherlock, married to his work and she merely a mistress for the night… _right_?

Holding her gaze, watching her for signs that she was okay, the concern clear in his liquid eyes. He unbuttoned his shirt and dragged it free. Kneeling down between her legs, he'd slowly lifted them, propping her ankles on his shoulders. Clasping both of her small hands in one of his own, he stretched them out above her head, wrapped his fingers around them and held them in place. Sliding his other hand down, over her breasts and ribs, her stomach muscles rippling under his palm, he cupped her sex.

"Sherlock!" She cried out, hips canting towards him.

When he slowly pressed himself in again, Molly could feel herself stretching for him once again, welcoming him. Her body already accustomed to the feel of him and desperate for more, she groaned as he pushed in the rest of the way. The hard plane of his stomach and the sparse hairs that adorned it, brushing against her swollen, aching clitoris.

His hips were magical, the rhythm he created was perfection as he swivelled his hips, each downward stroke rolling across her pearl and bringing her closer to another orgasm.

Straining up toward him, her head coming up off the ground, she sought his mouth for another kiss. The taste of his mouth like nothing she had ever experienced and as this was most likely a one-off, she had to take her fill.

For whatever reason he was equally enthusiastic, his tongue soft and warm, rolling against hers in a sublimely beautiful dance. Wailing into his mouth as she hurtled towards another orgasm, she opened her eyes to see him looking down at her, transfixed.

" _I - I love you, Molly_ ," he sounded and looked surprised at his own admission, though pleasantly so as he took her lips once again and plundered her mouth with his tongue.

Tumbling over the edge into the most intense orgasm she'd ever felt, she was surrounded by the love of her life in every possible way, her body lay under his, his hands gripped hers, his mouth covered hers and his breath filled her lungs, and now, sweetest of all, her ears rang with his declaration of love.

Changing the angle of his pelvis as he sought his own competition, he pounded into her. When he let her hands go to brace himself better, she ran her hands under his shirt and scratched her nails up and down his back, revelling in the wild grunts and deeper thrusts that rewarded her efforts. Lifting her hips to meet his, she moulded her palms to his backside and pulled at him, encouraging him to go deeper, the muscles in his arse hollowing on each down stroke.

Desperately, he gasped out, "No condom."

"I don't care," she whispered in return, "I want to feel - "

Even as she spoke, he groaned, pulsing inside her, his body jerking as he spilled his seed deep within. Collapsing on top of her, his breath came hot and heavy in her ear and the solid weight of him was a reassurance that this was no dream.

She savoured the delicious feeling, he'd roll off as he soon he re-joined the land of logic. Was there a more satisfying feeling than that of being deliciously crushed under the weight of a man after really mind-blowing and emotionally rewarding sex? And of course, the coup de grâce, make that man Sherlock Holmes and it was a slice of heaven on earth.

As she had expected, he rolled off in short order and she huffed at the loss. Taking this to mean she was cold, he sat up, slipped his shirt off of his shoulders. Holding out his hands to her, he pulled her to a sitting position and wrapped his shirt around her, encouraging her to slip her arms in. Then he pulled her down and cradled her head on his chest.

The smell of him surrounded her, _heaven_. It wasn't just his cologne, if it was, she'd simply purchase a bottle, as ludicrously over-priced as it was. No, there was an indefinable something, a unique Sherlockian quality that drew her to him, rendered him irresistible. At times she'd found herself wishing that a cure could be found, an antidote, other times she'd sworn that even with certain knowledge that he'd never ever reciprocate her feelings, she would still not have taken such a cure. For the most part, she was squarely in the middle, knowing full well that there was no hope to be had, that he was her weakness and she would forever be in his thrall and worst of all, that she didn't really care.

Sherlock looked over her, smiling, "You look good, in my clothes. You looked even better with me inside you."

Molly blushed, ducking her head, a smile tugging up the corners of her lips, "I _feel_ better with you, beside you, next to you, really, any way I can get you," she admitted.

Sherlock cocked his head, frowning mildly.

Unable to stop herself, she ran her finger lightly over that perfect crinkle that she'd longed to touch forever.

Staring up at the ceiling, he asked, sounding almost accusatory, "Why? Why feel better next to _me_? I've put you through hell. Why do you even _like_ me?"

"Sherlock, stop," worried that he would bolt, she kept her voice soft, "You can't keep thinking that I'm better than you. You think that I don't make mistakes?"

Jerking his head down, Sherlock caught her eyes, he still looked wary, but there was a hopeful quality there too.

Reaching out, Molly took his hand. "I dated a murderous master-criminal, I said yes to a marriage with a man that I didn't love - "

Face falling again, he countered, "You wouldn't have done those things if I had've - "

"Sherlock, it was _me_ who chose my reactions to your behaviour. You don't owe me your love to keep me out of trouble, to keep me safe…" Trailing off, she frowned, derailed by the sudden and overwhelming fear that tonight had not been about a shared desire, but rather a skewed sort of sense of responsibility.

Her hand shot up and covered her mouth, "Oh god, I'm going to be sick."

Awkwardly scrambling to her feet, she ran to the bathroom and kicked the door shut behind her.

Twirling her hair over one wrist, she leaned over the bowl. Her throat burned as the wine and the half-digested vindaloo she'd had with Sherlock, made its way back up her throat and out again. The room spun and her ears filled with static. Sweat beaded over the bridge of her nose and under her eyes and her stomach muscles seized.

Closing the lid, she rested her cheek on the cheap plastic cover, too far gone to be paranoid about germs. Focussed on her body and its myriad of demands, she felt rather then heard his approach.

Kneeling beside her, he reached around and flushed the toilet, then grabbed a wash cloth from the cabinet and moistened it with warm water.

Lifting her head, gazing at him, "Sherlock, you don't have to do this. It's _okay_ , you're not responsible for how _I_ behave. I'm an adult, heart break is part of life, you're simply not responsible for how I feel."

Jaw set, he shook his head in disbelief as he carefully dabbed at her flushed cheeks, "Molly Anne Hooper, do you mean to tell me that after what _we_ just did in there, you're going to claim that I just gave you my heart out of a warped sort of sense of _duty_?" He barked out a laugh, "And John and Mary think _you're_ the smart one?"

Confused, Molly frowned, wondering how much the alcohol was affecting her still, "Me? The smart one?"

"Emotionally smart," he clarified, inclining his head.

If anything this made her feel even more lost than she had been before, "Wait, what? Why were you discussing my emotional IQ?"

Pressing the cloth to her forehead, " _I_ wasn't, or at least I didn't start it. Mary - "

" _Mary_?" Her face crumpled, her voice a mere whisper as her head sank back down to the lid of the toilet. "This was Mary's idea? Throw the little morgue mouse a bone?" She asked bitterly.

"What? _No_! Molly! What are you talking about? Mary didn't ask me to," he blanched, " _Throw you a bone_. Why would she? Mary adores you."

"I don't know," she whispered, "Misguided sense of kindness? I don't know, but pity can be so cruel. Pity is a dirge for hope, _nothing_ can survive it. I have never been able to hide my feelings for you Sherlock, but to imagine you all _pitying_ me." Tears welled up in her eyes and she swiped at them angrily. Burying her head in her forearms.

"Molly," he entreated, " _Molly_ , look at me." Raw, unfettered emotion coloured his voice.

Without lifting her head, she turned her face and dragged her eyes, her tired, tired eyes to him. Sighing, she decided to hear what he had to say before asking him to just leave.

"No Molly," his tone brooked no argument, "I won't be going back to Baker St tonight, not unless you're with me."

Closing her eyes, Molly sighed, exhaustion claiming her, "Please, Sherlock, you don't need to explain, I told you, it's okay. I'm just tired and - "

"Molly Hooper!" His voice boomed out into the room, his face thunderous.

Shock propelled her head up and she watched him, pacing back and forth, the muscles in his chest and back harmonious, a melody of movement, even in his anger he walked in beauty, unfairly so. His thighs, slim and elegant, elongated with each step, the muscles in his arse flexing in an enticing rhythm. Even flaccid, his cock, swinging between his legs was mouth-watering, it spoke of promises Molly knew first hand it could deliver.

How could anyone be so commanding stark naked?

"Do you truly think so very little of me? That I would bed you, admit to _loving you_ , and all because Mary _bloody_ Watson thought it might be good for my character development? And then, you were going to _forgive_ _me_? Just like that? No explanation necessary? Your kindness is a cruelty." Jabbing his own chest he punctuated his words, "Let me be a fucking _man_ , let me be responsible for what I do. _At_ _least_ give me the respect you afforded _Meat_ _Dagger_."

Throwing his hands into the air, he boomed, "I'm in love with you Molly, I don't know how else to show it. I showed you with my body and with words and you dismiss it as a fucking life-coaching task assigned to me by the Watsons."

Molly sat, staring at him in awe, she wasn't sure until now that he could feel the way that most people did, now she saw, he had to keep it locked up, lest it devour him.

Snagging a towel, he wrapped it around his slim hips and tucked one corner under to secure it, before kneeling down next to her. Taking her hands in his own, he held them, caressing with his thumbs, before then raising them to his lips and kissing each of the fingertips.

"Yes," he said quietly, "We did talk about you, Mary brought it up - apropos of nothing, by the way - just stated that if I had been wondering whether I was too late, that there could never be a too late - for either of us. That she had never seen two people more suited, or more in love. She said that you balance me and I, you. And John told me that though he didn't believe in past lives, your love for me made him seriously reconsider, because whatever I did to deserve you, I certainly didn't do it in _this_ lifetime."

Gulping, Molly asked with fresh tears welling, " _John_ said that? About _me_?"

Tilting his head in understanding, he smiled gently, "He's not angry with you about the fall Molly, he's angry with me, that I didn't trust him and he's hurt"

Relief loosened a knot in her throat that had been there so long that she'd forgotten how it felt to breathe freely. The fall was such a sore spot for John, even now, and she had been sure he must hate her for her part, for her deception. Though he'd been friendly enough lately, she had dismissed his friendliness, supposing it was due to his generally polite nature and a mixture of Mary and Sherlock's input.

Sherlock clapped his hands together, and asked as Molly started in fright, "Now, where's Toby's cat carrier?"

"Toby's cat carrier?" She repeated in a high falsetto, squinting at him.

"Yes Molly," he agreed standing up, hands on his slim hips. "Do hurry up, chop chop."

Scrunching her nose in confusion, Molly asked, "What for?"

Rolling his eyes now in open irritation, he explained slowly, as though she was being purposefully obtuse, "We need to go to Baker St so you can get some sleep. You're going to wake up hung-over and Mrs Hudson will feed you and you'll feel better and I'll be able to have my wicked way with you again." He finished with a slow, lop-sided, sexy as hell smile.

"Oh," her voice was small, unconvinced.

As though, this was her only concern, he added, "Oh, and of course we can't leave Toby alone."

Still feeling uncertain, Molly bit her lip and studied her nails.

Dropping to his knees, he caught her eyes in his, the shifting blue and green landscape hypnotic in its beauty, golden flecks almost seeming to flow like liquid. Melted gold, poured into the mix with no fixed point and left to meander at will. Finally, he spoke, "Molly, I'm in love with you. I want you. I want your miserable excuse for a cat. I want your hang-over. I want to kiss you - when you've brushed - often, deeply, little pecks, hello and goodbye kisses. I want to kiss you in front of exes to mark my territory. So please, _please_ will you come to Baker St and stay with me. Just give me a chance, just like you would for any other man that you fancied that fancied you back."

Fear, a tidal wave crashing through her belly, threatened to engulf her. This was too big a risk, how could she just do what she would do with any other? None of her relationships had worked out and it had been heart-breaking each and every time. But with Sherlock, it wouldn't be survivable, she couldn't just get a haircut or a make-over and drink too much…

"But you're _not_ any other man Sherlock," she pleaded.

His answer to this was simple and direct, albeit a complete shock, "And _you're_ not any other woman."

"Oh," she breathed, finally getting it, she pointed at him, "You and me?" She tapped her chest and then gestured back and forth, between them with a look of complete and utter disbelief on her face. "You - " She cleared her throat, "You're...with _me_?"

His answer was little more than a breath, "Yes."

Mouth hanging open, she simply stared at him, head cocked to the side, as though she could somehow discern something more than the simple truth he had just given, and it was the truth, she could see that clearly, though she still couldn't grasp it. "Ah, when?"

"Longer than you'll believe Miss Hooper. I wanted to protect you."

Protect me? Was the alcohol addling her mind? That surely made no sense? Grasping at straws, she spluttered, "From your love?"

"Hence Mary's reasoning," he admitted ruefully.

Her heart bloomed, his tenderness like sunlight and rain, nurturing. Smiling crookedly,

"So, Baker Street?"

Holding his hands out to her, he pulled her to her feet, "Unless you've hired a housekeeper in the interim?" He asked, one eyebrow raised, glancing around as though one might just pop out from behind the shower curtain.

" _You_ don't have a housekeeper! That's straight from the horse's mouth." Molly admonished him, still grinning happily at him.

"Precisely, so I'm going to need you to tug on her heart strings so we can we can have a proper hot breakfast, you're going to need your energy and she's going to need to turn that tele up, maybe get out the herbal soothers early." He said with a cocky wink.

Molly giggled and covered her mouth, "Sherlock!" She mock scolded, "You're awful!"

Smiling goofily, he replied, "And don't you love it."

Nodding, smile not diminished by so much as one watt, she stood on her tip toes and kissed him, before murmuring, "Yeah, I do."

* * *

 _Thanks for reading, if you enjoyed it, come find me on Tumblr, I'm sweet-sweet-escape.._


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